“You know what sucks? Masturbating when you’ve got a bunch of paper cuts. Your fingers hurt and it distracts from the whole enjoyment part of jerking off.”
I looked at my buddy in the barstool next to me. He just said that. I wondered if he was just saying it to say it, or if he’d done that a few minutes ago and was now ruminating on the consequences.
“Let me see your hands,” I said.
He pulled his hands away from his bottle of Budweiser. A longneck, as always. They were not the hands of a working man. They had no blisters. No calluses. No broken fingernails. Not even a bruise. But, his fingers each had little red marks on them.
“Paper cuts?” I asked.
“Yep. Damn things hurt too.”
“I don’t even want to know.”
His wife came into the bar. Gave us the sheepish look she always does when she knows we were just talking about something “important.”
“Hey guys. What’s cracking?”
I looked at my buddy. He but his hands back around his Budweiser and took a long gulp. I guess that meant I had to come up with conversation for the moment.
“Me and your husband here were talking about paper cuts,” I said with a smile and a quick sip of my beer.
“Really?” she said. “And what brought this up on this glorious morning here in the bar?”
Instantly I knew that it wasn’t his masturbating that he was talking about. It was him trying to get her off today. Ha. Life is good sometimes.
“Oh, you know, it’s what us guys talk about. Paper cuts and daffodils.”
My buddy gave me an icy stare. It had been years since I got that stare. Way before he was married. Hell, back then, I thought he was as gay as they got. Instead, that fucker went and married his schoolgirl sweetheart. Me? I just kept fucking up relationships, one after the other. I even got in touch with my old schoolgirl sweetheart. Gotta love the internet. But a couple of weeks after I added her on Facebook (and she accepted!!!!) still not working up the nerve to even say hello, she put on that she was “in a relationship.” Such is life. Hell, the high school sweetheart sent me a message. I responded. She never responded back. Ha. I have a way with the ladies for sure.
But now he was giving me the “STFU” look. I guess those vaginal juices were still burning his open wounds.
I decided that when I got home tonight, I’d cut my fingers and try to jerk off. Just to see if, indeed, it hurt more than the pleasure you received. If I was a betting man, which I’m not, I’d say no. That the pleasure would win.
“How ‘bout them Redskins?” I suggested as a conversation starter and way around this whole paper cut theme.
She gave me an icy stare and ordered a Harp. At least she wasn’t going to carry a grudge. We all then proceeded to drink copious amounts of alcohol and just enjoy each other’s company. It didn’t happen often enough. They lived far away. They were rich. I’m poor. It makes for embarrassing moments and conversations.
“You should come up and go to New York next weekend with us?”
“Um, I can’t. Too expensive.”
“Shit, we’ll pay for it.”
“Yeah, I wish I could, but I work Friday and Saturday nights. Unlike you normal folks in the world.”
I used my shitty profession as a crutch many times. Like the many times girls want to go out with me and I’m just not interested or just can’t afford to. “We can hang out on Sunday or Monday!” The response is always the same: “But, I’ve got to work…”
Oh well. Being old and broke and horny all the time should make for inspiration at some point in my life. Of course, it didn’t when I was young and broke and horny. Of course, my dick worked a lot better then.
That got me thinking of paper cuts again. I don’t remember what movie it was, but somebody, I’d like to say it was Harvey Keitel but I know it wasn’t, described the vagina as a paper cut. I’m sure it was in reference to a young woman’s private areas, not that of a 39 year old. Not that I’d know anything about what a well-worn pussy looked like. Blessing? Yes. Curse? Of course. I’d rather see an old twat than no twat.
You start to wonder when it’ll stop. The dry spells. They seem to get worse the older I get. When I was young, I knew it was going to end. Now? I’m old. I could go out and score some ass. I know that. I’m not ugly. I have a decent rap. I just don’t like using it. Except when I want to. And that doesn’t happen very often.
The last time was a red head. Always a red head. She blew me off within five minutes of meeting me. But we’ve become friends. I do that. I collect friends. I’m that guy. John Cusack without a curveball to get the batters out.
It happens. And one day it’ll happen again.
Just like one day I’ll masturbate with paper cuts on my fingers. Just to see if it hurts.
Showing posts with label masturbation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label masturbation. Show all posts
Monday, April 18, 2011
Monday, January 10, 2011
mistakes and masturbation
I’m sitting alone in my shitty house with a not-so shitty location. At least during the summer. Right now, however, it’s winter. And cold. Snow will be on the ground by this time tomorrow. I won’t have anyone to cuddle with. To fuck. To even leer at. Unless someone happens upon the place while I’m outside tomorrow afternoon, because I’ll sleep in. Very late. I do that. Every day, usually. Even when I’m working. Some would say that’s lazy. Counter productive. I won’t disagree. Won’t agree either. But if a woman happens by and sees me in my soccer socks and short shorts, eating peanuts out of a can and thinks “damn, that’s hot,” then I’m in business.
Not counting my chickens.
Speaking of chickens, I wonder if chicken heads still think when they’re cut off. I mean, the body still runs around. Does the head still think?
Thinking is about all I do nowadays. I went to a buddy’s house yesterday. To get drunk, supposedly, and watch his six month old do six month old things. I drank four beers, ate some crappy frozen pizza and got a backache looking up at his giant television that’s hung in a terrible place on the wall for the person sitting on the left side of his giant leather couch -- me, on this night.
I could have done all those things -- minus the backache and giant television and baby and human contact other than me, most likely masturbating -- at home. I guess I made the right decision. I got a free haircut out of the deal. And a night’s sleep with actual heat. Although my sinuses get all fucked up when I sleep in heat. So now, my throat is itchy and my body is covered with static.
Maybe I’m never happy?
I spent a day at work. Did the late paper tonight out of choice. It was a good choice. There were more pages and that kept me occupied longer than the early two would have. I don’t understand why Grimace, which is the name I have applied the big, fat guy who works with me, stays in the office so long after he’s done. I have no life, and I’m assuming he has no life either. But I finish, I leave. I don’t want to be there, if anywhere. Oh well. I spent too many years of my life wanting to be in a newsroom. They’re sad places now. Empty cubicles and young people who don’t know the difference between their and there, let alone how to get a news story without a press release.
The Chicago paper put the wrong photo on their front page of a Hispanic baseball player that became a Cub. Some people tried to make it a race thing. If he’d been white and all that. Well, more than one paper fucked it up. And the source of the fuck up finally became known -- a bad cutline by the original photog with the AP. Gasp! A photog who fucks up a cutline? Anyways. Of course it shouldn’t have happened, and I believe up until about 2005 or so, there’s no way it would have happened. Now? All bets off.
One comment on a story about it I saw really made me want to puke. “That’s why newspapers are dead. All the Web sites just fixed it. You can’t just change a photo on 1,000s of newspapers.” Yeah, he/she is right (and wouldn’t it be funny if he/she was a ladyboy?), but … you’re also not held accountable for your fuckups. And the short attention span of he/she won’t remember that the web site always fucks shit up. But he/she will remember that one fuck up from the paper. Because it was on paper.
What the fuck is wrong with this country? The potential next president, put targets on congressional districts, and now months later is saying they weren’t crosshairs. Fuck you. They were. Own it. I’d actually have one once of respect for you if you admitted, that in fucking hindsight, it may have been crude. But instead, you lie. Fuck people.
I take responsibility for my fuck ups. I shit my career down the drain. I charged up my credit cards. I made really bad decisions about not wearing a rubber. I eat bad food. I drink too much. I didn’t brush my teeth enough in my 20s. I didn’t get the oil changed in my car for over 65,000 miles. Yeah, fuck it. I’m a pretty stupid guy sometimes. But, I keep trying.
I’m also going to New Orleans just for the hell of it. I’m starting to get my old itch back. Or, I’m finally allowing myself to fucking scratch it again. Just do it. See what the fuck comes of it. If I fail, fuck it. I took a class at UVA once. I was in over my head. Failing it. I didn’t study for the final. But, I still took it. Did well enough to get a D+ in the freaking class. Sometimes, the brain is a wonderful thing. Even when most of the time it isn’t.
It stinks in here. I’m done.
Not counting my chickens.
Speaking of chickens, I wonder if chicken heads still think when they’re cut off. I mean, the body still runs around. Does the head still think?
Thinking is about all I do nowadays. I went to a buddy’s house yesterday. To get drunk, supposedly, and watch his six month old do six month old things. I drank four beers, ate some crappy frozen pizza and got a backache looking up at his giant television that’s hung in a terrible place on the wall for the person sitting on the left side of his giant leather couch -- me, on this night.
I could have done all those things -- minus the backache and giant television and baby and human contact other than me, most likely masturbating -- at home. I guess I made the right decision. I got a free haircut out of the deal. And a night’s sleep with actual heat. Although my sinuses get all fucked up when I sleep in heat. So now, my throat is itchy and my body is covered with static.
Maybe I’m never happy?
I spent a day at work. Did the late paper tonight out of choice. It was a good choice. There were more pages and that kept me occupied longer than the early two would have. I don’t understand why Grimace, which is the name I have applied the big, fat guy who works with me, stays in the office so long after he’s done. I have no life, and I’m assuming he has no life either. But I finish, I leave. I don’t want to be there, if anywhere. Oh well. I spent too many years of my life wanting to be in a newsroom. They’re sad places now. Empty cubicles and young people who don’t know the difference between their and there, let alone how to get a news story without a press release.
The Chicago paper put the wrong photo on their front page of a Hispanic baseball player that became a Cub. Some people tried to make it a race thing. If he’d been white and all that. Well, more than one paper fucked it up. And the source of the fuck up finally became known -- a bad cutline by the original photog with the AP. Gasp! A photog who fucks up a cutline? Anyways. Of course it shouldn’t have happened, and I believe up until about 2005 or so, there’s no way it would have happened. Now? All bets off.
One comment on a story about it I saw really made me want to puke. “That’s why newspapers are dead. All the Web sites just fixed it. You can’t just change a photo on 1,000s of newspapers.” Yeah, he/she is right (and wouldn’t it be funny if he/she was a ladyboy?), but … you’re also not held accountable for your fuckups. And the short attention span of he/she won’t remember that the web site always fucks shit up. But he/she will remember that one fuck up from the paper. Because it was on paper.
What the fuck is wrong with this country? The potential next president, put targets on congressional districts, and now months later is saying they weren’t crosshairs. Fuck you. They were. Own it. I’d actually have one once of respect for you if you admitted, that in fucking hindsight, it may have been crude. But instead, you lie. Fuck people.
I take responsibility for my fuck ups. I shit my career down the drain. I charged up my credit cards. I made really bad decisions about not wearing a rubber. I eat bad food. I drink too much. I didn’t brush my teeth enough in my 20s. I didn’t get the oil changed in my car for over 65,000 miles. Yeah, fuck it. I’m a pretty stupid guy sometimes. But, I keep trying.
I’m also going to New Orleans just for the hell of it. I’m starting to get my old itch back. Or, I’m finally allowing myself to fucking scratch it again. Just do it. See what the fuck comes of it. If I fail, fuck it. I took a class at UVA once. I was in over my head. Failing it. I didn’t study for the final. But, I still took it. Did well enough to get a D+ in the freaking class. Sometimes, the brain is a wonderful thing. Even when most of the time it isn’t.
It stinks in here. I’m done.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
and then the bird shit on my windshield
Turn left. Turn right. Park there. No, park here. The decisions you make in a car are important ones. If you take a wrong turn, you’re late. Or you miss your destiny. Park in the wrong spot and a bird shits on your windshield or a shopping cart slams into your door.
Today, I didn’t make any wrong turns. But, I would debate that I didn’t make a right one either. I went to work. Did my job. And left. So dull. So humdrum. With nothing but a keyboard and a stereo at home, it gets lonely. It could be worse, though, and I understand it. I could be a vegetable on a cot in a home for vegetables. My days could be filled with bullets and bombs raining from the sky.
Or I could have married Crystal.
So, yeah, I know things could be worse.
It’s why I’m trying to make them better. Tough when you’ve got nearly 40 years of sadness wrapped up in a tortilla on the plate. Doused with hot sauce and just calling out your name…Wow, that was awful. I try to hard too often.
That was what I call funny. Think about it, maybe you’ll find it funny, too.
I put on some Neil Young. It becomes instantly obvious why I am so depressed all the time. I listen to Neil Young too much. Funny thing is, he’s probably a really happy person. Gets it all out in song. Which is why I have decided to just write. Even meaningless shit that a person who one days stumbles upon this because he/she/it searched for the Ben Affleck Jerk Off Video (somewhere Eric is smiling as I put another fucking hit generator in my shit) or maybe even the more elusive “women fucing in stool”. That one came from Abu Dhabi. So, I’ve got fans everywhere.
And there I go. Trying to tell a story and I get distracted my awful wit.
Meanwhile, Neil Young is singing about Mother Nature and burned out basements and I’m staring at a wart on my knee. It’s ugly. And kind of big. I finally bought some Compound W today. After months of contemplating it. The last time I got some, I didn’t close the cap tight and it turned into rubber cement and became useless. Seven bucks down the drain. That wart was on my finger. I just cut it off. It didn’t come back.
This one on my knee, however, it’s been there off and on for years. Since I was in college. The second time around. Just rip out the core, someone once told me. And I’ve done that. It never works. Well, it does for a while. Sometimes a few years. But it comes back. Always in the same place. I’m not very patient about such things. I want to get rid of the fucking thing. It’s gross to look at. And I’m sure any prospective woman in my life (ha!) feels the same way. Kind of like the half-assed hair cut that I’ve had for the past two years. As my buddy John was cutting my hair last night, it came up about the shitty way it was cut. How the Super Cuts ladies always seem to want to leave me with the front a little big longer. To. Cover. Up. The. Baldness. Guess what, honey (honeys, I guess), it doesn’t work.
Every damn time I’ve said “just cut it short. And don’t worry about me balding. I’m not concerned about tit.” And every time, they leave it too long. The do a good job covering it up. And I don’t notice until the wind hit’s the hair. Or it grows for two days. Except this one time. It was in the store in New Bern. A black lady I’d never seen was the only person there. She was cutting one lady’s hair and three people came in and left when they saw her, saying only, I’ll come back later. I sat there, waiting. I don’t care who cuts my hair. I especially don’t care if she’s got long fingernails and is black, which this lady, named Tanya, had and was.
My favorite was this short blonde-haired douche. He had on one of those Wal-Mart Ed Hardy rip-off shirts on. And torn jeans that were brand new except for the tears. I’ll never understand people who do that. Tears in jeans have to be earned. Even if you just go out and skateboard in them for 5 minutes, EARN them you bozos.
Anyway, this guy comes in and asks if anyone else is working. Just like that.
“Hi, I’m Tanya, the waits going to be 20 minutes or so.”
“Is anyone else working?” douche says very loudly.
“No, it’s just me today.” she replies. It’s almost sexy. But those fingernails make it hard.
“Guess I’ll come back tomorrow.”
He turns and walks toward the door. Then flips back and says “are you working?”
“No.”
“Great.” And he leaves.
People really are dickheads. It’s shit like that that makes one wonder why we want to couple up. But then you remember how good that actually is. And I’m not even talking about the sex. Well, not all of it. Not like I really remember what sex is. Jerking off? I can tell you stories…
Exactly. We’ve all got stories. The hopes and dreams of the common man are just as noble as those of a king.
Shit. There I go stealing Barton Fink’s prose. I should be ashamed.
The horror. The horror.
Today, I didn’t make any wrong turns. But, I would debate that I didn’t make a right one either. I went to work. Did my job. And left. So dull. So humdrum. With nothing but a keyboard and a stereo at home, it gets lonely. It could be worse, though, and I understand it. I could be a vegetable on a cot in a home for vegetables. My days could be filled with bullets and bombs raining from the sky.
Or I could have married Crystal.
So, yeah, I know things could be worse.
It’s why I’m trying to make them better. Tough when you’ve got nearly 40 years of sadness wrapped up in a tortilla on the plate. Doused with hot sauce and just calling out your name…Wow, that was awful. I try to hard too often.
That was what I call funny. Think about it, maybe you’ll find it funny, too.
I put on some Neil Young. It becomes instantly obvious why I am so depressed all the time. I listen to Neil Young too much. Funny thing is, he’s probably a really happy person. Gets it all out in song. Which is why I have decided to just write. Even meaningless shit that a person who one days stumbles upon this because he/she/it searched for the Ben Affleck Jerk Off Video (somewhere Eric is smiling as I put another fucking hit generator in my shit) or maybe even the more elusive “women fucing in stool”. That one came from Abu Dhabi. So, I’ve got fans everywhere.
And there I go. Trying to tell a story and I get distracted my awful wit.
Meanwhile, Neil Young is singing about Mother Nature and burned out basements and I’m staring at a wart on my knee. It’s ugly. And kind of big. I finally bought some Compound W today. After months of contemplating it. The last time I got some, I didn’t close the cap tight and it turned into rubber cement and became useless. Seven bucks down the drain. That wart was on my finger. I just cut it off. It didn’t come back.
This one on my knee, however, it’s been there off and on for years. Since I was in college. The second time around. Just rip out the core, someone once told me. And I’ve done that. It never works. Well, it does for a while. Sometimes a few years. But it comes back. Always in the same place. I’m not very patient about such things. I want to get rid of the fucking thing. It’s gross to look at. And I’m sure any prospective woman in my life (ha!) feels the same way. Kind of like the half-assed hair cut that I’ve had for the past two years. As my buddy John was cutting my hair last night, it came up about the shitty way it was cut. How the Super Cuts ladies always seem to want to leave me with the front a little big longer. To. Cover. Up. The. Baldness. Guess what, honey (honeys, I guess), it doesn’t work.
Every damn time I’ve said “just cut it short. And don’t worry about me balding. I’m not concerned about tit.” And every time, they leave it too long. The do a good job covering it up. And I don’t notice until the wind hit’s the hair. Or it grows for two days. Except this one time. It was in the store in New Bern. A black lady I’d never seen was the only person there. She was cutting one lady’s hair and three people came in and left when they saw her, saying only, I’ll come back later. I sat there, waiting. I don’t care who cuts my hair. I especially don’t care if she’s got long fingernails and is black, which this lady, named Tanya, had and was.
My favorite was this short blonde-haired douche. He had on one of those Wal-Mart Ed Hardy rip-off shirts on. And torn jeans that were brand new except for the tears. I’ll never understand people who do that. Tears in jeans have to be earned. Even if you just go out and skateboard in them for 5 minutes, EARN them you bozos.
Anyway, this guy comes in and asks if anyone else is working. Just like that.
“Hi, I’m Tanya, the waits going to be 20 minutes or so.”
“Is anyone else working?” douche says very loudly.
“No, it’s just me today.” she replies. It’s almost sexy. But those fingernails make it hard.
“Guess I’ll come back tomorrow.”
He turns and walks toward the door. Then flips back and says “are you working?”
“No.”
“Great.” And he leaves.
People really are dickheads. It’s shit like that that makes one wonder why we want to couple up. But then you remember how good that actually is. And I’m not even talking about the sex. Well, not all of it. Not like I really remember what sex is. Jerking off? I can tell you stories…
Exactly. We’ve all got stories. The hopes and dreams of the common man are just as noble as those of a king.
Shit. There I go stealing Barton Fink’s prose. I should be ashamed.
The horror. The horror.
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